A month there, one night
by Relic
Summary: 93 year old Boots thinks back to his month in Brooklyn, and the impact it had on the rest of his life.


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((AN- I debated putting this one up, since it's unfinished. However, I suck at patience, so, up it goes! This will only be two chapters, so enjoy, and don't forget to review!))

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The children crowded around the old, tired man, sitting in the back of the lodge at the bustling family reunion. He was the oldest remaining member, and the only link all of them shared. It was his children, and their children, and their children's children, and so on. And some family friends, thrown in.

At nearly 93 years old, he had lived and seen much more than most. And every year, at these reunions, he would tell vivid tales of things he'd done and seen, laced with fantasy and romance at every turn. The children loved to sit by his old rocker and listen for hours, with the adults milling about, pretending to be too old for such things, but secretly listening intently.

His aged-blue eyes scanned the crowd, a smile coming over his face. This, he imagined, would be his last reunion. He'd better make use of it.

Looking at his oldest great-great-grandchild, he squinted, pointing slowly toward her. "Forgive me, Child, I am old, and these eyes of mine no longer see as well as they should. What does your hat say?"

The beam of pride that Granddaddy Boots had picked her out of the crowd to speak to, was wide enough for even his eyes to see. "It says Brooklyn, Granddaddy. We went there a few weeks ago!"

"Ah, I thought so. Did you have fun?" Her emphatic nod made him laugh slightly. "Good, good. Brooklyn's a great place. Great place. You know, when I was young, I spent a month there, one night."

This caused a great wave of laughter from all surrounding him. A little boy in the crowd waved to him, shaking his head. "Granddaddy Boots, you can't spend a month somewhere, in one night!"

"Now that, little one, is where you are wrong. Let me tell you a story, an important story."

Brooklyn. The best and worst city in New York.

I spent a month there, one night.

My mother was a slave on a Mississippi cotton plantation. My father, well, he was nothing worth speaking of. They were married for convenience, for breeding purposes. That their families came from warring tribes in Africa, was not the concern of Master. Nothing about my people was the concern of Master; because to him, we were not people at all. We were abominations, sent by the Devil to mock the white-folk. We looked like them, but the color of our skin, our 'mark', showed them what we truly were; soulless, worthless beings. We were less than animals, less than living.

My mother had many children, many children. When my father was not beating her senseless, cursing her for the shame their marriage and union of their two tribes had brought to them, he was obsessing over creating more children to do Master's work.

The Great War came and went, and freedom reigned throughout the land. Supposedly. My father was loyal to his Master, and so, then, was his family. They stayed on at the plantation, working for nothing but a cruel word for their labor, a meager scrap for their meal, and a thin potato bag for their bed.

It was no place, no life, for my mother. Coming from a long line of strong, beautiful women, she was no exception. In her tribe, she would have been a princess, set to marry only the greatest warrior, and rule their land with her stern hand and soft heart. Instead, she was born a slave, married to a Demon, working lands that were not meant for her toil. When she was pregnant with me, many moons after the War, she ran.

She was older, then, with the beginnings of gray hair and pains in her knees. Pregnant and alone, with nothing but memories of _her_ mother and the plantation, all odds were against her. But somehow, she made it to New York. And there, I was born.

Somehow, she managed to find a boarding house in one of the boroughs that would let us live there. I still sometimes wonder how. It was a small apartment, but warm with love from my mother, and I left it only rarely in my early childhood days. I needed no outside contact. The big window on the side of our apartment and my mother's wonderful tales were enough. My mother told me everything, from true stories to fairy tales, when I was much too young to appreciate them. Great stories of beautiful cities of gold, of vast green lands, of kings and warriors. Sad stories, of her life, my grandparents, my forever-unclaimed birthrights.

She told me a story every night, before she would kiss my head and vanish out the door. She would be gone for the night, and come back tired, and sad. After a few hours, she would leave again, and not come back until it was time to put me to bed. That was the system, the first seven years of my life. I never understood, until I was much older, where she had left to everyday. Never understood the sacrifices she made for me. But that, youg ones, is another tale.

One night, when I was nine years old, she did not come to put me to bed. I must have waited for days, sitting on the edge of our tiny cot, waiting for her to come and tell me a story, so I could go to sleep. It wasn't until the landlord came in, threw our meager items out the window and pushed me out the front door, that I began to wonder if she was coming back.

I do not know what city that was, nor do I know to this day what happened to my mother. I am an old man now, and yet, time has filled me with only more questions. Accepting that, is the mark of growing up. You will understand that, someday.

I wandered for days without end, crying and searching for my mother. It stopped only when I collapsed in an alley, too tired and too weak to continue. I thought I would die, right then, and I wished it. Nothing could be worse than this cold, cruel alien world.

I awoke a few days later, I'd imagine, my eyes opening to find the face of a very confused looking boy, probably only a few years older than myself. He asked me if I was all right, and if I needed help. I asked him only for my mother.

He took me to a strange building, filled with boys of all ages and sizes. I protested as he carried me up a flight of stairs, begging to be taken back to my mother. He ignored me, dumping me on some sort of strange cot. My last few waking thoughts, after that, were filled with shame as I delighted in the comfort of the softest cot I had ever known, and forgot the search for my mother.

He shook me awake after what seemed to me to have been only a few moments.

"You want somethin' to eat, Kid?" he asked, standing in front of me with wide blue eyes and a worried expression.

I nodded, and barely stopped to chew the piece of bread he handed me before swallowing the whole thing. He smiled a lopsided sort of smile, and then laughed. I crawled back toward the wall quickly, afraid that this boy might be mad.

"Whoa, it's okay, Kid. I just ain't seen anyone eat like that for a long time. Where are you from? What's your name?" the boy asked, then laughed again as my eyes went wide at his bombardment of questions. "Can't get you back to your mom without knowing that."

"I don't... know," I answered, but he seemed hardly daunted. He looked me straight in the eyes with these great blue orbs that so many wish for but so few have and promised me everything would be all right. I believed him, too.

Finally, he determined that he could not get me back to my mother, or even to my original city, with the little information I was able to give him. I remember with great clarity how wise he looked as he stood for a long moment, deciding what my fate would be. It seemed like an eternity before he reached out, took my hand, and lead me down the street towards the beginning of my new life.

That was the beginning of my month in Brooklyn.


End file.
